Smokestack Lightning
by coffeeofacoffee
Summary: Meg is on a bloody rampage but is all as it seems?
1. Chapter 1

Title: Smokestack Lightning

Author: Coffeeofacoffee

Rating: R

Spoilers: Supernatural S8 - AU by necessity

Summary: "Guess who's back to her old tricks?" Meg is on a bloody rampage but is all as it seems?

Disclaimer: Not mine, no infringement intended, no profit made, no offence intended.

Author's Notes: Some people wanted Meg working with Crowley for next season. I disagreed but found a way to do it that might work for me. Not wanting to make it a gory epic, I kept it short and on the vague. About 6k words, and me testing out something longer and slightly more plotty than a drabble. Maybe it works, maybe it doesn't. I like the idea of it, however.

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**Smokestack Lightning**

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Ah, oh, smokestack lightning  
Shinin', just like gold  
Why don't ya hear me cryin'?

Whoa, oh, tell me, baby  
What's the, matter with you?  
Why don't ya hear me cryin'?  
Smokestack Lightning - **Howlin' Wolf**

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Walking down an abandoned railway track, a girl made her her way deeper and deeper into the forest land as if walking along the spine of a long dead animal. She looked - in the darkness - as if she had lost her way yet she knew very well where she was going.

The eyes of the night creatures hushed by her approach watched her as she went by until further up the tracks, ahead of her, a wild dog crossed the rails pausing in her path. Silently it lifted it's head to the wind, sniffing the air - it's nocturnal eyes reflecting the light of the moon behind her. Then without warning, as it had appeared, it scurried away fast.

It had smelled blood on the wind and come looking for prey. Recognising that the smell of blood came from the girl, it had half-loped toward her before sensing something offensive, likely dangerous. Wisely, it had opted for self-preservation over curiosity and hunger.

Indifferent to the remarkably voidlike silence opening around her, the girl continued up the tracks, her movements steady but somehow disjointed, her hair hidng her face. As if to punctuate her oddness of the disquieted atmosphere, every so often she would laugh to herself.

Blood dripped sluggishly down her arms and from her side leaving a droplet trail in her wake but not all the blood that she wore was her own.

At last, as if registering some unobservable change the girl stopped and looked up, her dark hair falling back from her face: her eyes were a solid black. The moon hung in a clear sky and the air was frosty against her congealing wounds. Carefully she removed her ripped jacket and threw it to ground being sure to bleed on it. Heat rose from her body in steamy tendrils that licked her like flames. She snorted, then spat on the ground beside her before - smiling sickeningly to herself - turning and sliding easily down off the tracks. Her rapidly moving form was almost immediately devoured by the shadows of the forest.

In the branches of a tree above her a startled owl hooted ominously. Almost in response, the lone dog long in the distance, howled.

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	2. Chapter 2

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A FEW HOURS EARLIER

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Dean, had been moving carefully forwards towards Meg in a wary, almost lazy circle, wishing that Ruby's knife in one hand, and an angel blade in the other, didn't necessitate working at such close combative quarters; wishing that they were outside and not in such a tightly cramped space - hoping he didn't miscalculate and slide on another unexpectedly slick area of the floor.

He knew at best that he was stalling for time, and he knew, she knew: she had already made the devil's trap in the room and avoided it - he wondered if it would have even worked. So far Meg had been moving like a hulked out version of a demon - pretty much unstoppable - and though Dean hadn't agreed (or perhaps he hadn't cared) at the time, it had seemed to Castiel, that if she were moving on borrowed power the exertion of her little spree would soon start burning her out from within, and that she would eventually weaken sufficiently for them to wrangle her - for want of a better term. Despite his misgivings Dean had yielded to the angel's better judgement on that particular subject: afterall, he would know.

So now it was a waiting game but things weren't exactly going according to plan. When did they ever?

Dean hackles had been steadily rising from the minute this thing had started: he may have expected a betrayal from Meg - their history kind of demanded it - but he'd expected it in completely different circumstances. This one came a litte out of left field. Meg, until her little indentured detention with Crowley had been the hell king's public enemy number one, dedicated to his defeat, now she appeared to be working with him - whether purposefully or incidentally they couldn't tell - they always seemed to be one step behind her, and she was being cryptic.

Until now.

There was an overturned lamp in the corner behind the demon and the closer he got to her the stronger the light became, the more detailed her little chiaroscuro of a crime scene became: There was blood all over - blood splatter on the walls of the cabin, pooling blood on the floor - God, blood in crazy arcs up on the ceiling - it reminded him so much of a hellhound attack that he kept waiting for them to betray their presence in the room but there was only Meg - as there had been each time before - patient, feral, and waiting for them. Taunting them. Perhaps it was too much to hope for that they could pin her down for a little interrogation this time, exhausted as she might be by overreaching, her back to a wall. Even for a demon, she didn't look in great shape.

He really hoped she was hurting after what she had done to the people they kept finding. Hurting was the least she could do.

A half-smeared bloody sigil was on the wall closest to her, one she'd used no doubt to expel Castiel with when the angel had - rashly, he thought in retrospect - arrived ahead of Dean. So much for the angel at his back. By his guess though that had been a few hours ago at least which still gave Cas time to recover. She didn't even have a hostage this time to complicate things - and she was injured. He didn't know whether to be alarmed or relived until, as if tired of playing 'nice', she finally said the following words:

"Your brother's dead - I'd have brought body parts as proof but he's just too darned cute a corpse to mutilate."

And how in the world would that be possible?

"What do you mean dead?"

Dean tried to think of it as a lie because it was too incomprehensible in the middle of a fight.

"I mean gone, ended, the late. Deadsies. Pushing up daisies."

Each iteration of the word dead seemed to bother him more. What the fuck had happened? It had only been a week ago that their hermetic insane world had seemed relatively hemmed in around them and them only - limited collateral damage - and relatively sane because of it. Only a week ago before this nightmare had sprung loose.

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	3. Chapter 3

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ONE WEEK EARLIER

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"Guess who's back to her old tricks?"

The first time you'd caught up to her there were a couple of survivors - not for want of Meg trying though. The bar they were standing in, though hardly full of people, looked like the site of a hurricane - if hurricanes carried knives.

On seeing them you, Meg yanked her knife out of the body of a young man splayed, unmoving, across a pool table - wiping the blade clean on his shirt.

"Smells like old man in here," she said. Then acknowledging you directly: "Hello, boys. You got my presents?"

You were the first to speak.

"Interesting... breadcrumb trail. You realise this means all bets are off and it's open season on your ass - angel or no."

She scoffed: "I'm kind of counting on it." Making her way back to the bar, she kicked the outstretched arm of another unfortunate body aside.

Beside you, Sam picked up: "I thought Crowley had you on lock down, Meg? How'd you get out?"

"Wrong question, Sammy boy. You should be asking why he let me out?"

You really weren't in the mood for chit chat then any more than you are now: "You know what? Enough. If you want us to put you out of your misery-"

"And what would you know about my misery?"

"We got your memos: it likes company."

She got a kick out that, and actually smirked: "Because you guys care what happens to little ol' me?"

"Not us but Cas-" Sam nodded at you and you both started to move out.

"Oh, Cas. How is your little wing man? Shame he can't sit in on this one, I'd like to see the look on his face. That Enochian warding's a bitch, huh?" Meg picked up a half drunk shot from the bar and downed it.

"So what's your game plan? What's the point of this little massacre? Acting out?"

You were both circling around to her from opposite sides of the room, hoping to force her down the middle. She didn't budge.

"Lot's of ugly death, in a very short period, Dean. It's not rocket science," she glared at you and you noticed again the way her eyes had been black and remained that way from the minute you had both entered the room. It was unnerving. "Even you can understand it." Then she winked at you before pouring herself another shot.

Sam tried another tack: "So this is a part of Crowley's plan. Distract us so he can unleash a lot of crazy crap without us on his back."

"Oh I'd say plenty of crazy crap is happening right here, right now - right in your laps."

Picking up the bottle up from behind the bar she waved it at you, knife still in her her hand. "Have a nice night boys. Maybe next we can make the talk last longer." Then she was gone and you were up to your eyes in entrails.

And so it began: the first of many similar escapes.

The last time she tarried too long you had gotten lucky and managed to drive Ruby's knife into her side - only to find it didn't work!

The only good news was that - from what you could see - she was still bleeding where you tried to gank her every time you had seen her since. Still, something was very off about the entire thing. Sam was the first to voice it:

"This doesn't seem like her, she's usually smarter."

"Well time in hell will make you plenty dumb if all you want is someone to carve. Maybe she's snapped."

"But then why would Crowley let her go?"

"Who says he did? We've only got her word for that. Not to mention the knife not working! Why the hell is that?"

"Maybe she's working with someone else? And they're protecting her?"

Only, people kept on dying - and in the end it didn't matter what the reason was, just that you had to make it stop.

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	4. Chapter 4

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Slowly - despite himself - the realisation that she might be telling the truth was beginning to grow. She just kept on pushing, and the more he thought about it the more those words stunned him, opening up a chasm whose line he skirted dizzily - too afraid to look down - staring across it so easily to a time and place that suddenly felt just like yesterday, where just as now Meg claimed she had killed another person dear to him: his father.

Distractedly, or perhaps in abject irritation, Meg brought the flat of her blade back and forth over the thigh of her denim jeans. The swishing sound it made, reminded Dean of the tail of an angry cat and it brought him back to the moment at hand.

He was still advancing on her. But every time he got near her she smoked out. It were as if she had opened a door and he had walked through it: they were playing a game and he had decided to join her, if only in the hopes that it gave Cas time to wing his way back. Otherwise she was just tormenting him for her own personal amusement.

"'Dead' as in I slit his pretty young neck from ear to ear. 'Dead' as in, if he's not, then that autopsy's gonna be a bitch."

Dean, still faltering with her words in his mind, had settled for figuring a way to wipe that maniacal smile off her face: she seemed so very gleeful about it all, an intense hatred staring out at him from her permanently pitch black eyes. Something wasn't right.

He slashed at her with the angel blade when she came at him managing - surprisingly - to catch her across the cheek. She was moving a little more slowly now. She materialised on the stairway behind him, looking winded but still overly pleased with her efforts. To say she was starting to piss him off was an understatement.

He stumbled over his words, gripping the two weapons in his hands until his knuckles blanched:

"And you expect me to believe you?"

"I've always been up front with you Dean, but no - I don't expect you to believe 'a demon'."

The sudden hum of his phone in his jacket almost jolted him like an electric shock.

Meg pointed towards his pocket with the very large knife she was holding and sneered: "Answers on line one, douche-nuggets." Dean didn't move, sizing this up as a trick; so she continued: "I'm pretty sure your brother's doctor friend is already quite upset enough without you screening her calls for help. Don't worry, I'll wait."

Dean hesitated for a second before pocketing Ruby's knife - it didn't work anyway - and cradling the phone to his ear. A woman's voice - obviously in distress - rose up to meet him. It wasn't very long before his eyes betrayed what he was hearing. He resisted the sinking feeling in his shoulders, the cold fear snaking up from his stomach, as Meg started to laugh and laugh.

He would have dropped the phone entirely and quite unwisely charged her if it wasn't for Amelia's sudden scream of surprise. The voice on the other end of the line changed.

"Cas?" Dean's tone betrayed a certain disbelief at the angel's perfect timing, as Meg's laughter faltered and her expression darkened, eyes narrowing in irritation. Dean observed her carefully while relaying his location to Castiel - she didn't seem in a hurry and the slight shrug of her shoulders sealed it: somehow she'd been expecting this.

It was too late to warn Cas off.

In the blink of an eye, as it so often was, the angel and Sam, were standing right next to Dean as if nothing so terrible had even occurred. They both knew better, however and Sam looked worse for the wear and groggy.

"Castiel!" Meg all but purred. "How's your baby Jesus hanging? You know this isn't going to be any rock and roll fun if you just keep bringing them back."

Castiel, who had been supporting Sam until that moment, now stepped forward allowing Dean to take his brother's weight.

He addressed Meg. "Put down the knife."

"Ooh, aren't you just a boss, giving orders. Get some sense knocked back into you in Monastic Park? Tell me, do they charge for rides?"

"Why are you doing this, Meg?"

"Crowley wanted you dead. Figured he'd send little ol' reindoctrinated me to do the job right. Figured it would hurt you," She aimed this word at Castiel specifically. "More. But I can see that's not the first mistake he's going to make."

"But why do this?" Castiel indicated the room.

"You know, I don't know. Maybe we should pray for answers? Our father who art in heaven. Oh! He's not in heaven, is he? Now where could Daddy be?"

"Enough talk Cas, take her out!" Dean barked. They were still taking far too long and Dean suspected Cas's resolve to see this through to the end would fail him given his 'feelings' for the demon. She could smoke out at any second and leave them high and dry until the next pile of bodies turned up.

"Careful there Dean, he hasn't gotten into my pants yet. Keep on smooth-talking me Romeo, you're so slick I'm sure I won't even feel you stick it in me." Meg pointedly eyed the angel blade Castiel was now holding.

Dean was pretty sure she couldn't outlive a mortal injury from that, however it was that she had managed to survive the same from Ruby's blade.

Meg blinked appreciatively: "Seven inches. I'm impressed." Before violently flipping the table in front of her at them.

Castiel deflected it to one side, and, appearing, to steel himself raised a hand towards her. Her body shot backwards, suddenly pinned her to the wall. Eerily, confusingly, she began to laugh:

"Up against a wall, so predictable."

Her body began to slide upwards, inexorably up, the wall's face, rising with the cadence of her laugher. It seemed, to Dean's mind, to take forever.

Castiel took another step towards, almost studying her. Dean wished he knew what she found so endlessly amusing, and no sooner had he thought it then, disturbingly, she seemed to tire of laughing and stopped.

Calmly she invoked something in what he would later learn was actually Enochian, and abruptly, Castiel's hold on her was gone. She dropped to the floor landing easily on her feet:

"Play time's over boys. Now catch me if you can."

Then she was gone.

Dean, Sam in his arms, had sunk to the floor with the weight of his listing brother; he had the disturbing feeling that things could only get worse if they didn't find her fast and he was utterly exasperated: "What the hell, Cas, you had her!"

"Something's not quite right." The angel replied as if this grave assessment gave a sufficient explanation for his actions.

Sam, his voice hoarse, pale and replete from just being brought back from death countered: "You can't let her go, who knows who or how many people she'll go after next." He left the not to mention, she just cut my throat, unspoken.

Castiel looked as if he were going to respond to this complaint before thinking the better of it, and just as he had arrived, he exited.

Dean, trying not to reach out an hit something, forced himself to check Sam's pulse instead; it was thready but strengthening. "You know, I swear a lot of crap could have been avoided if we just got him laid more often."

Sam spoke again, despite Dean's efforts to quiet him: "Do you think he'll actually kill her?"

Dean frowned. "If he doesn't want me getting to her first he will."

He stared around the room at the grisly carnage then back at Sam. His brother's expression had darkened from sympathy to consternation. That Cas had to kill Meg might have been unfortunate but it was now a very necessary act.

"Dean, give me your phone."

"After we find the bodies, Don Juan."

"Like I said, who knows who she'll go after next. We've got to give them the heads up."

Understanding Sam's immediate concern, Dean handed him the phone.

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	5. Chapter 5

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The cabin door was open like the others had been, and as before the first thing that hit him was the strong copperish smell of blood. No Enochian wards, no angel sigils this time, and he felt somewhat relieved, though he recognised the mistake in this response. Accordingly he cloaked himself to avoid detection.

The body of the cabin's owner - an old woman - was heaped at the door. Her throat had been cut. Meg was sitting in her rocking chair by the fireplace - whose kindling was still aglow - twisting her necklace between the finger and thumb of one hand, twisting the grip of her large knife in the other.

She had removed the jacket she had worn earlier - he had noted passing it on his way here. Now the non-defensive wounds on her forearms were clearly visible - patient, tally-like gashes that appeared to be, and probably were, self-inflicted. She seemed a creature in torment but that was not all. To his perception something was wrong with her body - even her true face semeed to be shuddering, buckling under a tremendous internal pressure. He could not quite discern the cause but he could perceive it - which was probably why she had kept him from her, and eluded him for as long as she had.

Presently her host was reaching breaking point, which might be why she had decided to reveal herself now: he was part of her plan.

Unaware of him, she sighed, leaned over, and threw some kindling in the fire. There was a large slash across the back of her shirt that almost revealed her naked back - but then she leaned back and sighed again.

In another part of the room the phone rang - and rang, and rang.

"Grandma's not home right now," Meg intoned. "Leave a message."

Yet the ringing persisted uninterrupted for another full minute before ceasing.

Castiel came further into the room. Meg, still rocking lightly in the chair, stuck her tongue out and ran it across the tip of her knife. It bled.

"You know, I was wondering just how long it was going to take for you to find me." She turned to him revealing that she had been aware of him all along. "But then, I made it easy for you this time, didn't I?"

He resisted betraying his disquiet: "How were you hiding yourself from me before."

"I was standing right behind you but you were too dumb to turn around."

He didn't respond.

"Aw, did I hurt your feelings? How about this then: I'll tell you when I'm done."

She stood up, stepping away from the fire. He still didn't speak - watching the light of the flames flickering across her skin - still trying to determine what that odd fluxing in her countenance masked.

"Well aren't you the silent, boring type. I'll give you a choice - you can turn around and walk away. Or-"

"We'll do this the hard way."

Meg chuckled with delight, and just as quickly grew cold. She kicked the sofa back to clear the space between them, as her expression dissolved into acridness:

"Well come at me bro, you know I love it hard."

He exhaled in regret and flitted suddenly behind her - which was when he got a proper view of her back and hesitated - only for a millisecond - which was surprisingly still long enough for her to take advantage of. She caught the angel blade just as he thrust forwards with it.

"Trying to stick me like a pig in a poke? Shouldn't you buy me dinner first?"

She drove him back with surprising strength - strength she shouldn't have had at least not against him. Thinking quickly he drove the divine power of light down through his hands, heating the blade to white hot instantly, so that it burned her.

She screamed, letting go almost immediately but deflected him backwards hard across the room so that he arced out from the living room and landed in the kitchen.

Her screeching was suitably inhuman, as she balled her hands into fists trying to wring away the smarting pain. Her body now rigid, she actually hissed at him. Then deliberately she reached down into her boot to reveal that she too had an angel blade of her own.

"I'm going to enjoy sticking this into your heart, angel."

Sitting up from the dent he had made in the refrigerator, Castiel rose gingerly to his feet. He understood now: her back was covered in binding links - and there were probably more elsewhere he couldn't see.

"Who are you?"

"Who am I?" Meg's lips moved in a mischievious mockery of innocence.

He repeated, more forcefully: "Who are you?"

"Ah, who are we? So you're not as dumb as you look, angel. Does it matter who we are? We are many, many, many - and get this, she's still in here - isn't that a crock? A demon with demon filling. Don't you just want a slice."

"Actually, no."

"Well aren't you strangely literal."

She/they flicked the angel blade towards him, as if encouraging rejoining their battle.

The pressure of so many demons inside one host must have been immense, to experience it must have been like being horribly distended, crushed and torn down the middle - all at once - all the time. Over and over. Eventually, even without over-exertion - which simply sped up the process - the host, unless particularly able to withstand such a burden, would rupture - but without disrupting the links the demons would remain tied to the body.

He had a good idea whose work this was.

"How many of you are there?"

The host's lips jerked to one side in a parody of a smile.

"We are legion, baby. Crowley made sure of that. Too many to count. Want to stop us, like Pokemon - you'll have to get us all - her included. This could be your last chance, hero, before this gets pointless."

"I know her, she'd rather I fight."

"She's not the only one."

No doubt, some of them had no plan to evacuate the body. They seemed committed to baiting him into their destruction. They had probably been souls in torment before they had been forced into Meg's host with her; and like her, they were probably in considerable agony due to the nature of their confinement. Yet some of them might feel otherwise. The only thing they had agreed upon, it seemed, was the killing.

He began to cross to the host, who mirrored his movements. Without warning she/they reached out a hand, propelling the rocking chair at him. He deflected it back easily into her/them forcing her/them back towards the fireplace; then once he had her/them there, he yanked the burning embers forwards forcing her/it/them to turn and deflect them. He only needed her/them off balance for a second.

He surged forward suddenly and clamped a hand over her/their mouth, placing the other on her/their back.

"I'm sorry, this is going to hurt."

He was speaking more for Meg's benefit.

Driving the light through the palm on her back, he had no other choice than to burn away the links with the skin - and then regenerate it. He felt the body strain in his grip in agony, and try to drive the angel blade it held backward into his body. He blocked it with an elbow but it still caught him at the wrist - a tear in his vessel shedding weak shafts of light.

He redoubled his effort, removing his hand from the host's mouth so that the demons were expelled.

They came billowing out in a cloud of smoky torrent, riding the body's screams. He could feel host body shuddering in his arms as if being torn apart - which was probably exactly what it felt like. The demon smoke tried to exit the house but found itself trapped.

Unknown to them the woman they had killed had been the sister of a hunter: the entire house was founded on a devil's trap - what came in, could not get out. She had probably had other safety measures in place should a demon come knocking but found herself unprepared for this particular encounter - as they all had been.

The entire house was filling to it's brim with wrathful, charged, sparking smoke.

Castiel, feeling the last of the usurping demons leave the body, tried to regenerate the burned away flesh, while protecting it from the forces around him. He ended up falling forward and covering her with his body. He brought a hand up over her face and closed her eyes.

His mouth by her ear whispered: "Keep your eyes closed."

And then he was accordingly filling the room with more and more light - driving the darkness not out but away - dissipating it completely.

When it was done he flipped over onto his back. It had taken some effort and concentration not to destroy the host body's sole cargo while eliminating the links. He sat up and lifted the body carefully into his arms. It seemed limp and unresponsive.

"Meg?"

He placed his hand against her forehead trying to trigger or locate some awareness from the body. Just then he felt something stir. Slowly the lips began to twitch, the eyelids fluttered, the eyes eventually opening. The fluxing he had seen in her previously was gone. She seemed to be herself but drained.

Her voice was small and weak:

"Looks like I'm the only thing left in the box," she breathed.

He breathed with her reflexively - not realising until he did that he had been holding it.

"Took you long enough to figure it out, Clarence."

"I was trying to get you to remain inside the body. I wasn't sure that you had."

She tried to move and only her neck and shoulders cooperated, exhausted she laid back.

"I'm the only one who can't get out of this meatsuit. Makes dying a bitch, don't you think? Crowley worked a bloodspell - thought it would be poetic if you killed me when I was possessed."

"I must admit it has a certain symmetry."

She ignored his observation and flexed her hands, feeling slowly returning to her - well, not hers exactly - body. "You'd think he'd be more original." Yet she was still considerably weakened, and so she lay like that in his arms for a long time.

After a while, he said the obvious: "We need to leave here. Hunters will be coming to investigate."

"You don't say, Sherlock. If I ever thought there was a price on my head before. Now..." She changed subjects and gritted her teeth. "I'm going to nail that limey dick to the wall."

"You'll have to survive first," he said - again stating the obvious.

She could sit up independent of him now, and she stared at him over her shoulder. "I take it you're kind of invested in that."

"Against my better judgement, yes."

She raised an eyebrow, enjoying his awkwardness. "Well it would be much appreciated if you could get me out of here. I'm a sitting duck."

He stood, then took her hand and helped her up. She looked over at the dead woman by the door and frowned.

"You know, this is going to cost. I'd lay odds that the Wonder Twins aren't going to be on board with any more white flags from my side."

"There is no need," he hesitated, estimating the weight of his words. "To tell them that you are alive."

She eyed him with a degree of surprise although there seemed to be little alternative.

"You know, I'm all for you stepping up to the plate and knocking one into the outfield for me but your little friends aren't going to be so understanding."

"If we succeed in bringing down, Crowley, perhaps there won't have to be further explanation."

She smiled at him genuinely - and it pleased him.

"You know, I never figure out if you're an optimist or just royally dumb but if you're willing to have my back then the feeling's mutual."

Then slowly, hesitantly, she placed a hand on his.

"Now let's get out of here before I grow horns."

And he too - for only a moment - dared to smile.

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-fin-


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